


first day of my life

by piratesails



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Fluff and Angst, New Year's Eve, Pining, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-31 12:22:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8578384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piratesails/pseuds/piratesails
Summary: Killian has never been one to give in. No matter how shitty the hand he’s been dealt. Because, really, Times Square on New Year’s Eve just as the ball’s about to drop? Bloody hell, you’ve got to be kidding him.Soulmate AU where you get a tattoo telling you the time and place you’ll meet them.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [captain_emmajones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/captain_emmajones/gifts).



> happiest of birthdays to my darling, Amy. and all my love to Lana (high-seas-swan) who saved this from being a pile of gibberish.  
> I finally wrote a soulmate trope, which I've wanted to do for ages. leave me a comment with your thoughts?
> 
> (title from 'first day of my life' by bright eyes.)

Under usual circumstances, people move to New York City for the lights, the glamour, the opportunity to make it big. Killian Jones wasn’t part of that conventional crowd. No, he’d moved here because of the small print under his left collarbone that he’d seen rather unceremoniously one morning in October while shaving, the shock of it nearly causing him to take his ear off with his razor.

Soulmate tattoos aren’t rare, but they aren’t exactly easy to come by either. The only person he knows of that has one is Robin, and he lucked out by having the name of the bar he manages appear on the inside of his forearm. He organised all his shifts according to the time and month on the tattoo, and sure enough, in less than a year, he’d found Regina. The same ink as his – _4:30pm, June, The Green Tavern_ – on the back of her neck.  

Most people weren’t that fortunate. Some, he’s heard, spend years waiting but never find the one they are destined for, and eventually give up.

Killian has never been one to give in. No matter how shitty the hand he’s been dealt. Even though Robin’s day wasn’t specific, at least the place was spot on. Because, really, Times Square on New Year’s Eve _just_ as the ball’s about to drop? Bloody hell, you’ve got to be kidding him.

Someone out there could have thrown him some kind of bone at least, perhaps specified that he should stand, oh, he doesn’t know, under the golden arch of McDonald’s. It may not be the coziest spot to meet the love of your life for the first time, but at least it would be a spot.

He’s a right sap either way, packing up and moving stateside for a shot at true love. Call him a romantic, or call him an idiot, he doesn’t care. He’s got a little bit of faith left in the magic of this world.

His phone rings as he’s slipping on his boots, and he sighs when he sees it’s Ruby, but picks up regardless.

“Hey, loverboy, all set for another night on the town?”

“Aye,” he says with a good-natured roll of his eyes, “just about ready to head out.”

“You sure you don’t want me to come? I’m pretty persuasive. I could get myself up on that stage and call out for your future happily ever after.”

He huffs out a laugh. “I’ll pass. Can’t have you stealing my thunder, Red, what if she goes for you instead?”

Ruby hums appreciatively and then says, “You know, you’ve got some serious determination there. This is what, your fourth year? They should get you a VIP pass and put you on top of the ball or something.”

“Ha-ha.” Ruby doesn’t necessarily believe in true love; she believes that the universe doesn’t control her and her actions. Killian believes that, too. But he also chooses, in this case, to agree with the universe.

It’s not the same as blindly agreeing to a predestined soulmate; he just likes the idea that there’s someone out there that’s exactly compatible with him. Made for him, even.

Not many people can say that.

“I’m serious,” Ruby insists, “you’ve gotta be famous by now.”

“Alas, I’m not,” he says with an exaggerated exhale, pressing his phone between his ear and shoulder so he can click his prosthetic into place. “Besides, thousands of people make their way to watch the ball drop every year in succession. Which is exactly why this is so bloody difficult,” he murmurs the last bit in frustration.

Ruby takes in a heavy breath, exhales, and Killian waits, takes the time to run his hand through his hair to make sure it looks good enough for a first meeting. He switches his phone to his hand just as Ruby speaks. “You’ll find her, Killian. The universe is literally telling you she’s out there.”

He nods, even though she can’t see. It’s more for self-assurance, anyway. “Thanks, Red. I’d best be going now.”

“Keep me updated, and you know where to find me if you need to,” she tells him, reminding him of the tradition they’ve shared for the last three years since the first time he’d failed to find his mystery woman.

“Aye, darling, I’ll talk to you later.”

“Bye, Killian. And trust me, she’s looking for you too. She’d be a fool not to be.”

He doesn’t know how true that is, but smiles at the statement regardless, hoping against hope that tonight will be the last night he has to do this, that perhaps he’ll be able to ring in 2012 with the woman he’s been waiting for.

-/-

He doesn’t find her. Or, perhaps she doesn’t show up at all, and Killian spends the night on Ruby’s couch, half deep into a bottle of rum in an attempt to feel less alone.

-/-

Every few months, he ends up on the online forums.

Usually in the middle of the night, when he’s had a drink or five.

There are hundreds of them littering the internet, and it doesn’t take him long to get lost in links and stories and links that lead to more stories; an eternal black hole sucking him in and resulting in a rather poor headspace.

The good stories leave him wondering if he’s deserving of an ending like that. And the bad ones only reinforce his spiraling thoughts. Safe to say, most days Killian Jones is a mess.

Despite his penchant for reading and rereading posts (his favourite being one by a user called _PrincessSnow_ who’d punched her soulmate in the face because he frightened her the first time they met), he spends even longer hours crouched in front of his laptop screen looking for his soulmate.

It’s not enough to stand in Times Square every year, no, Killian’s thorough perusal of the internet led him to a soulmate finder website called _SoulSearch_ , that allows people to post what tattoos they have, in the event that they’re looking and keep missing each other.

At this point, he’s sure he’s contributed to most of the online traffic on the site, with the amount of times in a week (and sometimes in a day) that he spends refreshing the filtered search. They should make him brand ambassador and print his face on the merchandise. He’s got the app, and his push notifications on for it, too. They should at least bump up his post to the home page.

He doesn’t even care if they label him desperate. After five years of waiting, he sort of is.

-/-

“So what exactly do you _do_ when you get there?” Liam asks him, his beer halfway to his mouth. He’d shown up with a two day’s notice, claiming that he missed Killian and wanted to spend some time with his little brother. (“Younger brother,” he’d corrected Liam over the phone immediately, quietly reveling in the comforting familiarity of the conversation.)

Killian shrugs. “Walk around, talk to a few folks, buy myself a drink.” Truth is, he doesn’t exactly _know_. He can’t very well get his plea displayed on one of the LCD screens. (He’s tried. He doesn’t have that kind of money.)

“That doesn’t sound very fruitful,” his brother muses. Liam hadn’t been all that convinced when Killian had decided to leave their shared Boston apartment in the late November of 2009 for the sake of his quest. Killian isn’t sure if he’s completely convinced now, either, but he’s supportive at least; he’s well past the stage of pleading for his brother’s approval, but he would still prefer to have Liam on his side.

“That’s what I said,” Ruby adds from where she’s sprawled on his couch. “I told him to wear one of those light up shirts that says ‘I’m Looking For My Soulmate.’ It would certainly catch attention.” She nods to herself like it’s the best idea in the whole world.

Killian rolls his eyes. “They’ll take me for a pervert.”

“Yeah, but a hot pervert.”

“I’m unaware of whether I should be offended at that or not.” He narrows his eyes at Ruby and her grin grows wider.

“If I were you, I’d take anything I could get.”

Killian grunts and Liam chuckles beside him. “Perhaps you should carry a sign instead?” Liam suggests, unhelpfully.

“Oh, or maybe I could call Anna, remember her from college? She was in the marching band, I’m sure she can gather them all up and get a parade going for you,” she says excitedly, reaching for her phone on the coffee table. At this point, Killian isn’t sure whether she’s joking or not.

He makes a strangled sound of disdain once she’s grasped her phone, and lunges forward to pluck it out of her hand. “Although I appreciate the, quite frankly, God-awful brainstorming session, I would much prefer sticking to my original methods.” He twirls her phone in his hand, never breaking eye contact with her so she gets it. Once she sighs and throws her hands up in surrender, he places the phone back down.

“Suit yourself, Romeo,” she replies, flopping back on the couch.

She goes back to scrolling through his Netflix queue, and he revels in the end of the conversation.

“You’d think they would have put a year on that thing,” he hears Liam mutter. When he looks at his elder brother, Liam raises his brows as if to imply ‘I’m just saying.’

Killian hums, tries not to show how frustrated he is about it all. “That would have been wise,” is all he says, even though he’s just itching for a good fight. If only it was possible to punch the bloody fates in the face.

Instead, he brings his hand up to rub against the tattoo through his sweatshirt. He’s patient, but some days he wonders whether this is more of a curse than it is a blessing.

-/-

After his sixth New Year’s Eve, Liam suggests he start dating again. Says Killian’s been at this too long, and he just happens to know a fine lass in the area near Killian who’d love to have dinner some time.

How Liam even made friends in New York is ridiculous to him considering he lives in another bloody state. But abandoning the notion of true love for some blind date setup situation is even more ridiculous.

Liam has always been the more practical out of the two. That mindset, though, has never worked much for Killian.

He hasn’t dated since he left Boston. His last relationship was with Milah and that ended a year before his skin was marked. They’d been dating for a while, up until she’d found words tattooed on the side of her thigh and they’d called it off, deciding to stay friends instead. Sure, he’d been heartbroken at losing her, but he couldn’t keep her from finding the one person she was destined for. The person that was, despite their wonderful relationship, not him.

So, he turns down the suggestion, and sticks to his routine. He’ll admit that it does get lonely. Sure, he has friends, a job, a small but nice apartment in Brooklyn with friendly enough neighbours, but when he stands in front of his bathroom mirror at the end of the day, staring at the words inked into his skin, he feels an emptiness in his chest.

He knows that there’s something missing.

If he never meets his soulmate, the words will only be a bitter reminder of something he could have had. Love. A family. Someone to come home to.

-/-

His watch reads 11:59. He sighs.

Another year, another no-show.

He knows that every soulmate meeting ever to have happened has happened at the exact time given, right to the second. He’s at a loss of what to do, and so starts making his way to the outskirts of the crowd, pushing past shoulders and squeezing through barricades, until he’s finally in a relatively open area. Which is usually impossible for Times Square at this time of year, but at least the universe is looking out for him to some extent.

After eight years of this, perhaps he deserves a little looking out for.

One second he’s staring up at the ball, the next he’s being tackled to the ground, his back hitting the rough pavement. Killian groans, and keeps his eyes squeezed shut in the hopes that it will cease the pounding in his head.

“Shit,” comes from the voice above him, the weight shifting so it relieves some off of his body. “Shit, _fuck_.”

He blinks his eyes open and wonders if they’re playing tricks on him. The woman on top of him (he’d make a crude joke, but he’s far too distracted to at the moment) has her brows pinched together and her mouth set in a hard frown. From beneath her grey beanie, her blonde curls spill haphazardly over her shoulders, and the lights around them tint her skin red.

She’s hurriedly scanning the crowds around them, and he’s glad he fell ways away from a large group of people; at least he didn’t take down any drunken, merry, folks and ruin their night. And then she’s scrambling back to her feet, neck craning higher so she can look above the crowds. She glances back at him, clearly fighting a battle in her head.  

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I have to go,” is all he gets from her before she’s darting away from him.

He’s still laying there, eyes fixed on the space where she just was.

A voice booms from the speakers around him, “Less than a minute to go now!” The crowd erupts in more cheers, and it takes him a second. He looks at his watch, that tells him it’s past midnight, and then at the large Toshiba clock above, which indicates that it’s only a few seconds past 11:59.

Abruptly, he twists his body so he’s on all fours, staring in the direction she’d just run off in.

He moves to sit on his knees, eyes unwavering, biting his lower lip so hard it almost bleeds. There’s a shift of excitement in the air as the countdown starts around him, but he feels no will to participate in the celebration. And as the ball drops and Killian is showered in confetti, he remains in his place, unable to believe what just happened.

He’d met his soulmate, and lost her, all in the span of under a minute.

Bloody fucking hell.

-/-

He tells Ruby after a week, after he’s dodged too many calls and texts, after she’s pounded on his front door enough times that it started giving him a headache.

He tells her and feels his heart fall into his stomach all over again. The universe showed him what he could have, and then ripped it right from under his nose. (Or, technically, from above his nose, but, details.)

After a few choice words, some at him, some at the blonde he can’t get out of his mind, some at the whole “fucking soulmate thing,” she takes a few breaths and snags his laptop off his coffee table. She deposits herself on his couch and begins typing.

“What the bloody hell are you going to do? Google ‘blonde woman at Times Square’?”

She snaps her head up and glares at him. “It’s a hell of a lot better than sitting here and brooding for the rest of your life.”

The longer she keeps her eyes on him, the more energy leaves his body. He doesn’t want to fight with his best friend, but he can’t help it. He needs to get it all out somehow.

She must see the shift in his face because she huffs and pulls the screen closed. “What are you planning to do about this?”

He shrugs. He doesn’t feel up to doing much at all, ever, frankly.

“Well, if you’re choosing to be pathetic, then fine.” She slides his laptop onto the table and gets up, stomping towards the door. He slumps down on the sofa and thinks bitterly that maybe he should keep a tally of women that have walked away from him since the year began.

Though, he doesn’t hear the door and a moment later, Ruby’s storming back into his living room, a tub of rum raisin pilfered from his freezer and two spoons in hand.

She sits down next to him and reaches for the remote. “I don’t agree with this, loverboy, but I guess you have to do you. But if it gets too much, I will not hesitate to beat up your sorry ass, okay?”

Despite himself, he smiles. “Okay.”

With a nod, she says, “Now, do you feel more Meg Ryan or John Cusack?”

-/-

The worst part about it all, is that he can’t get her face out of his head. The gold of her curls, the gentle slope of her cheeks, the green of her eyes. No doubt, she’d look even more vibrant in the light of day.

His picture memory is what got him through college, but now he curses every bit of it because it wakes him up in the early hours of the morning and reduces him to a pining mess.

He takes back what he thought on New Year’s Eve. The universe isn’t watching out for him. In fact, it’s definitely decided to hell with him.

-/-

A month passes and not much else changes. He leaves work as he always does, but this time decides to head to the bar instead of to Ruby’s for their movie night. He feels a little guilty blowing her off but the weight of the universe is a worse burden to bear. And so, he chooses to be selfish for tonight.

He ignores Ruby’s responding texts, and spends the next hour or so (he isn’t quite sure how long it’s been, his watch is still broken, and he refuses to take his phone out of his pocket) on a bar stool, not really watching the football match on the screen. The place is one of his preferred bars – a hole-in-the-wall gem that is very rarely filled with people. He’s rather fond of it, found it in his third year on his way back home from Times Square when the night got too cold and his thoughts got too heavy.

It’s a similar situation now, so he sits at the bar and downs his second rum and coke before ordering another, staring at it as though it holds all the answers to the universe. He feels a sadness deep in his chest that wells up the longer he sits there. There’s an anger that simmers at the surface, too.

His emotions aren’t exactly at the most stable right now.

On his third glass, he grudgingly checks his buzzing phone to find eight texts from Ruby. There’s two from Liam, as well, and he knows Ruby must have called him up to check if Killian wasn’t dying, or anything of the sort.

Killian groans, the sadness slowly turning into a physical weariness. He shoots her and Liam a quick message, telling them that he’s alive and will return home soon. He also tells Ruby he’ll call her if he needs a ride back, so she doesn’t worry any more than she already is. He locks his phone and drops his head onto his arms on the bar with a sigh.

He’s still attempting to come to terms with what happened a month ago. Could he still leave a Missed Connections ad asking for the woman who’d tackled him to the ground and run off again? Was it too late to do that? He’d thought of it the day after, but convinced himself it was too pathetic.

Now, though, he’d try anything.

Someone slips into the stool next to his just has he’s contemplating making flyers and handing them out in Times Square, like one of those psychotic people warning others of the rapture. He feels like his world is ending, so perhaps it’s the same thing.

He lifts his head up and glances at the feminine voice that orders a rum and coke. She unwraps her scarf as Killian’s eyes focus on her. He nearly falls face first onto the floor when he sees her. She turns to look at him after he grunts at his own gracefulness and positions himself back on the stool properly.

She has those brilliant green eyes on him once again and he feels the air leave his body in a _whoosh_. It takes her a moment to recognize him, and then, “Oh, hi.”

Killian clears his throat, hand habitually going to scratch behind his ear. “Hello, lass. Fancy running into you again.” His confidence surges through him and he attempts to keep his face from splitting into a large grin, lest he freak her out. “Well, not literally this time, I suppose once of that was enough.”

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I didn’t mean to–” she gestures vaguely at his head and he nods, “I was chasing a skip and I tripped and,” she shakes her head and take a breath. “I mean, yeah, I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize, love, as you can see my head is still intact.” He smirks. He can hardly believe it. “Did you catch whomever you were chasing?”

She furrows her brows in thought and thanks the bartender for the drink he slides to her. “No, he got away. It’s my fault for luring him out on New Year’s Eve of all fucking days.”

“Not a fan of the celebration?”

She scoffs. “You don’t even know the half of it.”

He doesn’t know what to make of that, wants to know if her distaste for it stems from the hype surrounding it, or from the matching tattoo he’s sure she has somewhere on her body. The latter makes his mouth drop into a frown. It makes him frighteningly aware of the fact that the lass still has no clue that he’s her soulmate. And if she hasn’t been actively looking for him, well, he knows that discussion can’t end well.

“Would you make that your resolution for the new year, to catch the man you were after?” Despite his swirl of emotions, he wants to keep the conversation going, wants to know everything there is to know about this stunning woman in a red leather jacket that’s here over everywhere else despite the vastness of the city.

She takes a sip of her drink. “I don’t do resolutions. Plus, I don’t need a list to tell me to do my job.”

“And, pray tell, what exactly is it that you do?”

“I’m a bail bondsperson.” She stares him down as if to dare him to question her choice of occupation.

Her tackle and her default stance (shoulders squared, chin up) already told him she was a tough lass. But her words are confirmation. He’s impressed, and he doesn’t know her but he thinks there’s nothing that would suit her like this profession. “Can’t say I’ve ever met a bounty hunter before. I’m afraid us poor sods that work in publishing don’t get to see much of the outside world.”

He sees the little uptick of the side of her mouth, the closest thing to a smile she’s given him yet.

“Somehow I find that hard to believe,” she replies, bringing the glass up to her mouth.

She’s flirting with him, he’s certain of it, and he can’t keep his grin in check for much longer. She’s _here_ , as though just thinking of her conjured her up. Gods, he must be going insane, or something.

He sticks his hand out in introduction, “Killian Jones.”

“Emma Swan.” She shakes his hand. “And I really am sorry about the knocking you over thing.”

“At least you can say that I fell for you the first time I met you,” he waggles his brows and her smile grows until she rolls her eyes at him and takes another sip of her drink.

He’d be content here, like this, but he can’t exactly do that. If nothing else, he considers himself a man of honour, and that means telling her the truth.

“May I ask you something personal, Swan?” It’s obviously the worst way to word it, seeing as her her defenses so obviously go up. “Nothing, uh, inappropriate, I assure you.”

She looks at him for a long, hard, moment and finally nods.

He shakes his head and steels himself. “Do you believe in soulmates?”

Her back straightens immediately and she downs her drink. She avoids his eyes. “That’s a strange thing to ask someone you’ve just met.”

The deflection is so obvious, it’s almost painful. “Ah, but we’ve already met before.” She toys with the napkin next to her glass. “And I ask because,” he takes in a deep breath, “because of the way we met, or, in fact, the time and place we met.”

When his words finally sink in, her eyes widen. “11:59pm, New Year’s Eve, Times Square,” she says, voice flat and devoid of any emotion. As though she’s repeated it to herself a thousand times before, and it’s been seared onto the tip of her tongue.

The sound that escapes him is halfway between a sob and a laugh. “I never thought I’d meet you again, but then this, it’s– I don’t know what it is. A second chance, perhaps?” He wants to tell her he’s been waiting for what feels like most of his life, wants to let her know that she’s well beyond anything he’s imagined his soulmate to be. He wants to say things like _destiny_ and _fate_ and _serendipity_. He wants to, but he can’t. Because there’s tinge of fear in her eyes, and Killian can’t risk her leaving again.

“I–,” is the only thing she says. And suddenly he severely hates the empty bar, and the silence that comes with it.

“You– you don’t want this, do you?” The words ache as he says them.

“I’m sorry, Killian,” she says. It’s small and quiet, and then she’s pushing herself off her stool and grabbing at her scarf. She drops a few bills on the bar when Killian finally snaps to attention.

He’s out of his seat and in front of her before she can move any further. “Swan, don’t do this.” His words are bordering on pleading, but he can’t control the tremor in his voice. “Don’t you believe in this?”

“I don’t believe in fairytales,” she replies, voice hardening around the edges.

In a last ditch attempt, he takes out his wallet from his back pocket and hands her his business card. “If you change your mind.” His fingers shake a little, and she stares hard at them. But she takes it, anyway. “Try something new, love, it’s called trust.”

She watches him, and he takes the opportunity to catalogue every feature of hers in case he never sees her again. Because he’s an arse to himself that way. When she moves this time, he doesn’t stop her.

-/-

He slips back into a routine; works overtime some days and goes to the gym more often to let his frustrations out on the punching bag.

He avoids talking to Liam, and tells Ruby that he’s fine. His slowly diminishing hope leaves him bitter and sad and avoiding the mirror lest his eyes fall onto the words on his skin.

-/-

His phone rings at three in the morning a few weeks later, and he nearly falls out of bed in an attempt to pick the bloody thing up. He’d only fallen asleep an hour ago thanks to the recent state of his mind, and he’s this close to chewing the person on the other end of the line’s ear off. He barks out a rough hello.

There’s silence, and his frustration grows. He’s about to end the call when he hears a soft, “Hi,” and suddenly he’s pressing the phone closer to his ear. She clears her throat, “Shit, sorry, I probably woke you.”

“Emma?”

“Yeah, hi,” she repeats, a little sheepish, he thinks. “Should I, uh, call later, when you’re not half asleep or…?”

“No,” he says hurriedly, “no, no. This is fine. Hello, love. It’s good to hear from you.” He doesn’t want to be too excited, but damn, he can’t help himself.

“I caught the guy, the guy I was chasing when we met? I turned him over to the cops tonight.”

He settles back onto his bed and smiles at the ceiling. “That’s brilliant, love. Didn’t knock anyone else down in the process, did you?”

Emma exhales in a way that sounds like a laugh. “Nope, that’s apparently reserved for you.”

“Good.”

She stays quiet, and he pulls the phone away to make sure she hasn’t disconnected the call. He’s just about to ask when she speaks, “I thought about what you said…about belief and trust.”

“You did?”

“I have a son,” she blurts out.

He blinks. “Alright. What’s his name?”

She breathes in, out, and he hears a rustle of sheets. “Henry,” she replies, “he’s almost six.”

“Love,” he says softly, “you could have told me you already had a family.”

“That’s not it, Henry’s dad– he’s not in the picture. Hasn’t been for a long time.” She says the last bit bitterly, and there’s a story there, he knows. But he has to earn it, he knows that, too. “I don’t want to Henry to get attached to something that won’t last.”

“Emma, love, believe me when I say, I’m in this for the long haul. I’m willing to do whatever it takes.”

She scoffs and he tries not to be too personally offended. “You don’t even know me.”

“I’d like to,” he replies immediately, thinking about the eight years he’s spent waiting and wondering and hoping. “I really would.”

There’s silence stretches long between them again, so he asks, “Still there?”

“Could we start with being friends?”

Killian smiles, “Aye, I’d like that.”

-/-

When he meets her the next time, it’s at a diner at the edge of Queens, in the middle of the afternoon. When she walks in, he’s glad to know that he was right, that she does look even more radiant when the sun is lighting up her features. The cold wind has left bright red shades on Emma’s nose and cheeks. It’s endearing. He’s _endeared_.

She tells him about how she got the tattoo on the side of her hip on her eighteenth birthday, three months pregnant and hateful of the world. They do the math, and it turns out he’d gotten his tattoo at the same time as her, though he was two years older. She tells him she was an orphan, that yellow is her favourite colour, and that she likes PopTarts way more than any proper adult with a job and a son should. She tells him she hates Times Square and how crowded it is almost all the time. Mostly, though, she talks about Henry, and Killian sees pride and adoration for the boy in her tone.

In turn, he tells her of his own discovery of his tattoo. Tells her of Liam and how he raised Killian, of how he’s come to be rather fond of New York, of the accident that caused him to lose his hand.

She’s far more open with him this time around, more giving with her smiles.

They talk all through his hour long lunch break, he kisses the back of her hand when they part and she looks something between confused and happy. Killian finds he can’t wipe the smile off his face for the rest of the day.

-/-

Being friends with Emma Swan turns out to be surprisingly easy, even when she absentmindedly licks her lips and all he wants to do is kiss her. The only time their conversation over text comes to a halt is during the one day a week when they meet for lunch.

He can’t quite grasp the idea of it, how he’s waited and waited and waited. And how she’s here. Laughing at his attempts at flirting with her, and eating grilled cheeses, and telling him about the skips she’s trying to get a hold of.

She shows him the small tattoo of a buttercup she has on her wrist, the one she got to get her mind off of the other one. He tries not to take it too personally, it was more of a _fuck you_ to the universe, not to her soulmate.

(It’s strange to think of her as his _soulmate_ when she’s sitting in front of him, sprinkling cinnamon on to the whipped cream over her hot chocolate. It’s strange that he’s dreamt up so many different versions of her, but now that she’s here, and very real, he knows even the best version can’t compare to her.)

(Maybe he was right, maybe he did fall for her the first time they met.)

He shows her the black armband tattoo on his left arm, right under his elbow. The one he and Liam both got once he was old enough, in memory of their mother. He tells her it’s silly, but he thinks that if he and his brother share this, they won’t drift apart.

“I don’t think I could ever lose him,” he says, and Emma reaches for his hand across the table in comfort.

(When he unzips his jacket and pulls the V of his t-shirt lower to show her the ink they share, she raises her hand toward it before pulling it back.)

-/-

When he finally tells Ruby, she punches him in the shoulder for not telling her sooner. Then she hugs him so hard that he’s afraid she’ll cause his ribs to collapse into themselves.

And when Ruby finally meets Emma, he thinks she wants to hate her. Ruby had murmured under her breath the whole drive to the bar about how she’d made Killian miserable for too long. She scowls throughout the whole introduction, but the minute they start talking, he knows Emma has won her over.

They’re not too different, and Killian feels relieved. He wants Emma to fit into his life, even though it means Ruby making jokes at his expense and her laughing at them, and at him.

He’ll take it, whatever form she comes in. He’ll take it.

-/-

He meets Henry not long after, and the two of them get along better than he could have ever imagined, if he says so himself. The three of them go out for ice cream and to an old fashioned arcade where he lets Henry beat him at _Street Fighter_.

When they make a stop at the bookstore on the way back to Emma’s apartment, he watches Henry’s eyes light up as he scans the shelves of children’s books. He picks out one about a pirate and his crew, and Killian is more than willing to act it out with him, play-sword fighting in the middle of the bookshelves, and all.

He likes the lad, likes that he can see Emma’s strength in him, even though he’s still very young. He tells her as much once he’s walked them back to her apartment door, and Henry’s darted inside to read the book he’d bought.

Emma eyes him curiously. “What are you doing?”

It’s a strange question, and Killian furrows his brows. “I’m sorry?”

“I mean,” she huffs, “what are you _doing_?” She gestures awkwardly in the space between them.

“Love, I’m really not following.”

“ _This_. Standing there being nice and supportive with your stupid pretty face–”

“You think my face is pretty?” He grins wide, and steps closer to her.

Emma falters in her tirade for but a second. “I said stupid.”

“But you also said pretty,” he reminds her. She rolls her eyes. “What exactly are you trying to say, love?”

“God,” she mumbles under her breath, loud enough that he hears it. “Do you like me?” The question tumbles out of her mouth so fast it sounds like only one syllable.

“Pardon?” he asks, just to make sure he heard right.

Emma shakes her head, “Forget it.” She turns towards the door but he quickly catches her wrist in his hand, a simple gesture asking her to stay.

“Of course I like you,” he says once she’s facing him again. “I like you quite a bit.”

“Then why haven’t you kissed me yet?”

He’s back to being confused. “You said you wanted to be friends, did you not?” She nods slowly. “I was following your wishes, I am a gentleman, you know.”

The side of her mouth pulls up in an amused smile before dropping back down. “You realise I’ve been flirting with you for, like, a month now, hoping you’d get the hint.”

He thought so, but he didn’t want to let himself hope. He’s known Emma for almost five months now, and he’d told himself once their friendship started that if this was all she ever wanted from him, he’d be okay with it. Now, his lips twitch with the need to smile, but he resists. “Get what hint?” he says, opting to tease her, tapping his index finger on her wrist tattoo where his hand still holds her.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she says, before using her free hand to pull at the front of his button up and crush her lips to his in a heady kiss. He responds with a muffled noise of surprise, following it up quickly by kissing her back with everything he has.

His hand finds her hair while his other arm pulls her closer by her waist. He swallows her groan and keeps kissing her until he can’t breathe, and even then. She pulls back eventually, gulping in air and smiling a small, sheepish thing at him. More than the kiss, it’s that that makes his heart beat wild.

“ _That_ ,” the hand still fisted in his shirt pulls at it, “hint.”

“If you wanted me to kiss you, Swan, all you had to do was ask.” He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, fingers skimming down the length of her neck.

She tugs lightly at the tuft of hair at the nape of his neck, and moves even closer to rest her forehead against his. “Kiss me?” she asks.

He does.

-/-

They take things slow.

And for a man who’s waited eight years, and then some, Killian doesn’t mind. He’s got all the time in the world for Emma Swan.

They go on a real, actual, date to an Italian place near the docks, where Emma tells him about Henry’s dad, Neal, and how he left before Henry was even born. He tells her about Milah, tells her then that he moved here because he wanted to believe in the possibility of a soulmate for him.

She tells him she avoided New York for that exact reason, until her job forced her to move here. She doesn’t apologise for making him wait, or running away from him, but he sees the lingering sadness in her expression.

In an effort to dispel the tension, he jokingly tells her about the internet site he’d registered to find her. She bugs him about it until he finally relents and pulls up his _SoulSearch_ app on his phone. Emma spends the night calling him “pirate” because of his username _PirateKJ_ , and making bad sea related puns over her glass of wine.

They walk down the docks, and he tells her of his love for the water and the house in England they had that was by a stream. When they sit down on the bench, Emma leans her head against his shoulder, and takes advantage of the undone buttons of his shirt to press her fingers gently to the ink under his collarbone.

He swears his heart stops right then, figures that he’d probably follow her to the ends of the earth if she’d let him.

-/-

It’s as he’s kissing her at her doorway, his leather jacket around her shoulders and the fabric of her dress soft under his palm, that the door to the apartment next to hers swings open.

They shoot apart quickly, and Killian suddenly feels like a teenager trying to get in a few makeout sessions with his girlfriend without her parents catching on.

Emma’s cheeks are red, and there are strands falling out of her ponytail, but she throws her head back in frustration. “Mary Margaret,” she whines to the woman with short black hair and an eager grin. “What the hell?”

Mary Margaret ignores Emma and goes for Killian, putting her hand forward. “Hi, I’m Mary Margaret, Emma’s neighbour and occasionally Henry’s babysitter.”

Killian has to shake himself out of his haze as he takes her hand. “Killian, nice to meet you.”

“You, too, finally. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Killian shoots Emma a raised eyebrow and a smug grin.

She smacks him on the shoulder with the back of her hand. “Shut up.”

“You two are so cute,” Mary Margaret says, and he thinks she might as well be Emma’s parent with how proudly she beams at them. It’s then that he notices the writing that wraps around her arm just above her wrist. She must notice how awkwardly he’s squinting at it because she pulls her arm up higher to show him. “Yeah, it’s a soulmate tattoo,” she smiles fondly.

“No fucking way,” he breathes out, eyes darting between her tattoo and her face. “You’re _PrincessSnow_.”

“Princess Who?” Emma says, while Mary Margaret squeals a little.

“You know about that?”

“Yours is one famous tale,” he shakes his head, his excitement bubbling out of him. Killian feels like he’s meeting a celebrity. “Did you really punch your soulmate in the face?”

Mary Margaret laughs and taps on the side of her chin, “His jaw was bruised for nearly two weeks, and he likes to tell everyone it didn’t hurt that much, but he doubled over in pain when it happened.”

“This is amazing,” he says.

“What the hell is happening right now?” Emma asks in confusion, eyes shifting between the two of them.

“That website I showed you,” Killian tries to explain, “she’s basically a celebrity on there. Everyone says theirs is the best love story told.”

“Stop it, they don’t say that,” Mary Margaret says, smiling.

“Cross my heart, love,” he tells her.

“O-o-o-kay,” Emma cuts in, “I think that’s enough fangirling for one night.” Emma throws a pointed look at her neighbour who only laughs, and wishes Killian goodnight before going back into her apartment.

“Now, now, love, there’s no need to be jealous,” he murmurs low, wrapping his arms around her.

“I’m not jealous,” she scoffs, palms easily resting over his chest. “I just can’t decide if you were more excited about our date or about meeting your soulmate idol.”

He laughs quietly and nudges her nose with his. “That’s what being jealous is, Swan.” He kisses her long and hard until he hears the little moan escape the back of her throat. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “And for the record, it is you that I will always be most excited about.”

“Good.”

-/-

After several weeks of dates and kisses that get deeper and more languid the longer they spend together, they throw caution to the wind. Well, Emma decides, and Killian is more than happy when she takes the lead. More than happy when she suggests he take them back to his apartment when Henry’s at a sleepover.

More than happy when she kisses him slowly, and presses his body down into the mattress of his bed.

More than happy when she lets him find the inches of her body that make her squirm when he presses his mouth to them. More than happy to leave a trail of butterfly kisses along the length of the tattoo at her hip, revelling in the serendipity of it all. In the wonder of Emma Swan and all that she is, not just alone, but what she is to him.

When she falls asleep after they’ve tired themselves out, a pleasing ache in their muscles, he decides he’s much, much, more than just happy.

-/-

When he stands in front of the bathroom mirror the next morning with his shirt off, and eyes on his tattoo, the sadness he used to feel is a long forgotten emotion.

Especially when Emma wraps her arms around his waist, kisses his shoulder and mumbles a “‘Morning,” into his skin.

Then, all he feels is love.

-/-

He spends Christmas at her apartment, and per her suggestion, brings Ruby and Liam. His elder brother and his girlfriend immediately become friends through their shared love for some television show he can’t quite make out the plot of through their conversation.

He and David, on the other hand, take a few hours to get around to actually liking each other. David, who Mary Margaret described as nothing but charming, spends his conversations threateningly glaring at him. Killian tries to be respectful of the man who is like a brother to Emma, but only ends up glaring back after getting tired of the hostility.

David comes around eventually, once Emma pulls him aside and stares hard at him. Killian doesn’t think she even says anything to the man, merely warning him with her eyes. She’s a tough lass, his Swan.

“You make her happy,” David says to him, handing him a glass of eggnog. “So I guess you’re okay.”

“Thanks, mate, I suppose.” They clink their glasses together, and he thinks that it might take some getting used to, but he’ll grow on David, he’s sure of it.

It’s a strange thing to be a part of a gathering so lively and big when he’s spent his last few Christmases with Liam, and sometimes Ruby. He thought he was content with what he had, with his little family. But when Emma kisses him under the mistletoe and Henry bounds over to hug him once he unwraps the present Killian got him, he thinks that perhaps he’s destined to be more than _just_ content.

-/-

“Are you free tonight?” Emma asks him over the phone while he’s downing his morning dose of coffee.

“Why, Swan, are you asking me on a date?”

“Shut up,” she says. “Maybe.”

“I’m always free for you, love.”

He can hear the smile in her words when she replies. “Wanna watch the ball drop?”

“Sure, your apartment or mine?” He’s already mentally planning the best way to get to her apartment with the crowds of New Year’s Eve in the way. He can take the subway, or maybe he’ll call an Uber.

“I was thinking Times Square?”

He pauses, mug halfway to his lips. He lowers it slowly back onto the countertop. “You hate Times Square.”

“You don’t.”

“Aye, but that doesn’t mean we have to go there.”

“I want to and so does Henry,” she adds, “besides, you don’t want to break your streak, do you?”

He doesn’t quite know why she’s insisting, but he’s never been one to deny her. “Only if you’re absolutely certain this is how you and the lad want to spend New Year’s Eve.”

“I’m certain.” Then she says, “I’ll pick you up?”

“In that metal contraption of death you try and pass off as a car? Love, I’m not so sure it’ll make it to my apartment, let alone our destination and all the way back.”

“Hey, don’t diss the Bug.”

“The Bug has almost murdered me twice.”

“So it takes a little while to heat up, and the tires aren’t the best during the cold. Geez, Killian, you’re such a drama queen.” He can just about see her roll her eyes in punctuation. “I’ll pick you up at 7, we can beat the traffic and have dinner there.”

“As you wish, darling. I’m looking forward to near death experience number three rather eagerly.”

“Whatever,” she mumbles in lieu of a comeback. He laughs until she gets tired and ends the call.

-/-

Henry looks like one of those used clothing racks at the changing rooms in department stores with how much Emma’s layered him up to block out the cold. Still, the extra weight does nothing to stop him from bouncing up and down in excitement while they merge into the crowds at Times Square.

He holds Killian’s hand through it all, and points out every single LED screen.

“Aye, lad, but you know the best lights come from the fireworks in the sky.”

“I’ve seen them on tv, but never so close before,” he grins over his scarf.

“They’re a marvel, Henry, but they get pretty loud so you may want to be prepared for that.”

“I can take it,” he says proudly.

“Is that right?”

He nods, “I’m a big boy now.”

“You sure are, kid,” Emma says, ruffling his hair.

The find a spot that lets them have a view of the ball without being too close to heavy crowds. There are still thousands of people around them, so he asks Henry if he’d like a better view. When the lad nods enthusiastically, Killian lifts him up onto his shoulders, and holds on tight to his legs with his hand and prosthetic.

Emma smiles at him as Henry lets out a, “Woah, you can see everything from up here.”

“Enjoying, love?” He asks her, with ten minutes left and the crowd buzzing around them. She’d had to talk Henry out of wanting the metallic coloured hats and party horns. She’d had to talk him out of buying them for Henry, too.

“It’s not so bad,” she says. “You?”

“Marginally better than last year when some lass decided to knock me the ground and leave my skull throbbing for days.”

“Your skull was fine.”

He hums. “And what of my heart?”

She looks at him like she wants to say something but the Henry calls for their attention, pointing at the clock and cheering loudly with the rest of the people around them.

As soon as the clock hits 11:59, and the voice over the speaker announces a minute to the New Year, Emma nudges him. He looks to her and she puts her hand forward, “Hi, I’m Emma Swan.”

Killian narrows his eyes at her. “What are you doing?”

She rolls her eyes and wiggles her fingers. “Just go with, okay?”

Being careful to keep Henry balanced with his prosthetic, he shakes her hand. “Killian Jones.”

“We’re soulmates, by the way.”

Killian catches on to what she’s doing then, what she’s trying to recreate in an attempt to make it better, to erase the hurt he went through. Gods, he loves her. Killian shakes his head and uses the hand that’s in his grasp to tug her closer to him.

“Emma, you don’t have to do this.”

“But this is how it was supposed to be, not the mess that I made it.”

The chanting starts up in an ethereal kind of echo. The countdown has always been his favourite part of this whole celebration, the voices of thousands and thousands of people in unison anticipating the year ahead. It’s like a good kiss, he thinks, the lead up is the best part.

It goes from ten to one, and while everyone stares at the ball above them, Killian keeps his eyes on Emma.

At zero, he kisses her as hard as he can with a six year old perched on his shoulders. With Emma, he thinks, the lead up leaves little to be desired in the face of the actual kiss.

“We’re a little messy, Swan,” he tells her, leaning into her when he says it so he doesn’t have to shout too much. “I like that about us. People might say that Mary Margaret and David have the best story ever told, but I don’t care. Yours and mine, that’s my favourite one.”

They haven’t talked about their future together, or anything even beyond their plans for the next morning. But when he looks at her, Killian thinks that there might just be love in her heart for him, too.

Henry bends down, leaning his cheek against Killian’s head. “Happy New Year, Mom. Happy New Year, Killian.”

Killian grins and reaches up to ruffle Henry’s hair. “Happy New Year, lad.”

Killian bends lower so Emma can kiss Henry on the cheek, “Happy New Year, kid.”

Emma sidles up to his side and leans against him as they turn to watch the fireworks. He wraps an arm around Emma and pulls her even closer, smiles harder when her hand instinctively goes to rest below his collarbone. And for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t spend the first minutes of the new year alone. Instead, he spends it with the people he’s found a home with.


End file.
